


oh, do not look at me so

by enochian (ingram)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8045566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingram/pseuds/enochian
Summary: she learns to deal with the aftermath.(post-Vault spoilers. you know the one.)





	oh, do not look at me so

It hurts.

She jolts awake to pitch black and the cold, clammy _(discordant)_ feeling of a damp undershirt in the chill of the Ishgardian night.

This isn't the first time.

She takes a ragged inhale, suddenly hyperaware of the sheen of sweat on her skin and the tremors racking her body, and tries to regain her composure.

_(- a flash of blue and silver, the blinding brightness of aether against steel - and a cottony, deafening silence ringing in her ears as she realizes what just transpired -)_

It's the same accursed thing, over and over, the replay of that same accursed day in the same accursed spires of the Vault. She presses her palms to her eyes with urgency, but it's no use - the memory burns hot and bright beneath her eyelids, like each and every night before.

_(this is how it always plays out in her dreams; every single moment burns itself into her subconscious like hellfire - the almost graceful way his body arcs from the recoil always, always plays in slow motion, like she's afraid to miss a single second of the one last time she's ever set eyes on him._

_there are many, many more good memories to choose from. she does not know why her subconscious chooses this one.)_

-

The Warrior of Light has always done a good job keeping herself together - she's the perfect picture of the stoic, unflappable sentinel in these ever-tumultuous times.

Today, however, Aymeric presses his lips together at the now-palpable aura of exhaustion surrounding the woman entering his office.

It's quite unlike her to let it show, he thinks. He decides not to press the issue; it hangs over everybody still, a heavy shroud that seems to cloak everything it touches in a deep, shocked quiet.

Even with her exceptional fortitude, the loss of a dear friend is far from trivial, and the least he can do for all she's done for them is take it upon himself to see to her welfare as best as he can manage. He takes one look at the dark circles beneath her eyes that are decidedly even more pronounced than before, however, and decides that there are some conversations left untouched for a little bit longer.

He offers her a seat and a cup of tea with birch syrup and sits with her in silence instead.

-

There is a warm sunset on her back and a bleeding knight in her lap.

_(- Haurchefant, Haurchefant, please, she furiously whispers into his hand clasped against her cheek (cold, clammy, don't go), thoughts of all else thrown out the proverbial window for a few stark moments, sod the archbishop, sod the Heaven's Ward, sod everything, Haurchefant, please, please -_

_he decides the best thing to do is grace her with another of his platitudes and a gentle smile, and the moment his last breath escapes heavensward is the same one in which her sky comes crashing down.)_

-

Fray says, without pretense or preamble, that they're positive she's always had a masochistic streak.

"How long will you keep doing this?" they snarl, the edge evident in their voice. "How long are you going to keep pressing yourself into service to every single woebegone sod that comes crying to you for help for the most trivial of things?"

She doesn't deign to reply, choosing instead to walk ahead of them a little more briskly. _A knight lives to serve,_ a familiar voice says in the back of her mind, and she nods to herself. (She can almost hear the smile in his words again if she listens well enough.)

As if reading her mind, Fray then intones, suddenly devoid of any emotion, "You would do well to learn a lesson from the smile you _failed_ to protect."

This makes her whirl around in a white-hot fury, unsheathing her greatsword in one fluid motion with all the intention of lashing out with steel in lieu of words, but Fray is gone, and she is alone at the gates of Ishgard, and all she wants to do is scream but the sucker punch of sheer pain and _regret_ is - as it always has been since that day - overpowering.

-

_("a smile better suits a hero," he whispers before he passes. she remembers the enunciation of each syllable and holds it close.)_

-

It hurts.

She jolts awake to pitch black and the cold, clammy _(discordant)_ feeling of a damp undershirt in the chill of the Ishgardian night.

This isn't the last time,

_(but she'll be damned if she lets it consume her for the rest of her waking days, she tells herself. she knows she's stronger than that._

_she knows he would want her to be.)_

This time, instead of keeping herself company with her too-vivid, burning bright memories, she pulls herself together and makes her way to Providence Point.

She kneels by the marble and rests her forehead against the broken shield despite the cold, and the quiet of the night almost feels like a welcoming embrace.

_I'm trying so hard, Haurchefant. I really am._

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for a friend's WoL.
> 
> time heals all wounds.


End file.
